In Every Universe
by startraveller776
Summary: A collection of unrelated Lokane drabbles inspired by Tumblr prompts.
1. Waking Up is Hard to Do

**Disclaimer:** Nothing owned but my silly speculations

**A/N:** These are **_unrelated_ **drabbles inspired by Tumblr prompts. (Kinda like my 100 Themes in Loki-dom.)

**Request:** Amnesia AU  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Humor

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><p><strong>Waking Up is Hard to Do<strong>

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><p>She doesn't want to wake up, not yet. She's in a snuggly, happy place, cocooned in soft feather comforters and a warm body wrapped around—<p>

Wait.

Her eyes fly open, and heart pounding, she turns to see exactly who is sharing her bed. No, not her bed. Definitely not. Her companion, for lack of a better word, is hidden beneath a veil of dark hair—_black_ hair. Long hair. She tries to disentangle herself from his long limbs and—oh god, where are her _clothes_?—he stirs, mumbling something unintelligible in a deep baritone before pulling her flush against his equally nude body.

This is bad. This is very, very bad. Why can't she remember how she got here?

Did she go out with Darcy last night and hook up with some random guy? Exactly how much did she have to drink? Because this isn't her. Never. It may have been three years since Thor returned to Asgard and one year since he came back—just not to _her_—before disappearing again, but even jaded, she's not the kind of gal to do the one-night stand thing. At least not, apparently, before last night.

She attempts another escape and is rewarded with more grumbling, more tightening of his arms. She landed herself a cuddler. How, precisely?

Giving up the notion of sneaking out of bed, she shoves against him and wrangles herself free of his grasp. He half sits up with a groan, and she bites back a scream.

Looking up at her with bleary eyes is Loki. _Loki_. As in "I think I'll to destroy Manhattan because I'm bored out of my gourd" little-black-sheep-brother-of-Thor _Loki_. Naked. In bed with her. _Naked_.

She scrambles back, belatedly realizing that she should have taken the blanket with her when his gaze dips briefly to her bare breasts. She grabs a nearby pillow and does her best to cover herself. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smirk.

"You're—" She points an accusatory finger at him, but her brain seems stuck on the first word of her diatribe and is unable to load the rest. "You're—" She tries again and fails.

"I'm what?" he asks, sitting up fully, blankets pooling low on his hips. (Don't look. Don't look. Too late.) "Extraordinarily clever? Dashingly handsome? Remarkably virile?"

"You're Loki!" her brain finally finishes.

He raises a brow. "I'm _Loki_? After all that build up? I'm disappointed, Jane."

"You kidnapped me!" she blurts out. And did god knows what to her, to boot.

He seems utterly baffled by her accusation, and then some kind of light bulb clicks on. "They did say there might be temporary side effects as your body goes through the transformation, but I don't recall anyone mentioning memory loss."

"What are you talking about?" she practically screeches the question as she backs toward the edge of the bed. (Good grief, it's _huge_.)

He gives her a predatory smile. "My dear Jane," he says, crawling toward her. "My darling _wife_, you've had an apple of Idun. And now it seems I get to make you fall in love with me all over again."

He catches her arm just before she accidentally topples off the mattress. "The chase was fun the first time. I think it might be even better the second."

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><p><strong>AN:** Thank you so much for reading! :)


	2. Letting Go

**Request:** "I forgive you"

**Genre:** Drama

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><p><strong>Letting Go<strong>

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><p>It's not about him.<p>

She's not sure how she's come to this revelation, but as she studies the smirk that twists his mouth—at odds with the glassy pain in his eyes—she comprehends this plain truth: it's not about what he's done and what he's still capable of doing.

It's about her.

"I forgive you." Anger and hatred bleed from her with that simple statement. Emotions which have had their own black heart in her chest, beating poison through her veins. She feels lighter, freer.

He sneers at her. "I don't need your forgiveness, _mortal_."

She smiles. Because he doesn't understand. _She_ needed it. She needed to disentangle herself from the web of deceit and violence he's spun around her, around those she loves. In forgiving him, she's no longer his victim.

She's taken away his power over her.

"I forgive you," she repeats, reveling in the sweet taste of these three words. They strip him of the veil of power-mad god. She now sees a broken little boy and a new feeling thrums beneath her skin. Pity. Sympathy. Empathy. This is why Thor has loved his brother in spite of Loki's attempts on his life. This is why Frigga never turned her back on the black prince of Asgard.

"I forgive you," she says again.

"_Enough!_" Loki slams Gungnir against the gilded dais, rises from the throne. He descends the steps with a menacing gait until he's standing over her. "I don't want it."

"Sometimes you get what you don't want, Loki," she returns. Not an invective. Merely a point of fact. One listed among the things he's given her that she never wanted: the glories of the Realm Eternal, when she was satisfied with the meagerness of Earth; a crown to rule at his side, when she preferred her makeshift research lab in New Mexico; his relentless obsession with possessing everything Thor once had—including her.

The muscles in his jaw flex, just briefly before he trains his expression to that of playful trickster diety. "Perhaps," he says. "But I also get what I _do_ want in the end, Jane. Always." His long fingers trace a line from her chin to the bend in her jaw, and she shudders at his touch. Equal parts revulsion and the unwelcome tendrils of desire—the former because of the latter.

"Come to me tonight," he murmurs. "Surrender to me, once and for all."

She closes her eyes for a breath before looking up at him with a gaze infused with steel. "I still don't love you."

He bares his teeth in growling rage and withdraws his hand. "You will," he threatens. "You will love me more than you ever loved him. Even if it takes a thousand years."

He grabs her arm and, with long strides, hauls her out of the throne room. Out of the palace. Toward the gardens where Idunn's tree grows and bears the fruit of immortality.

Something else she never wanted.

She'll have to forgive him this, too.

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><p><strong>AN:** Thanks so much for reading!


	3. Never Cross a Librarian

**Request:** Librarian/Avid Reader AU  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Humor

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><p><strong>Never Cross a Librarian<strong>

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><p>She's a slob. A hopeless, inconsiderate slob, and it drives him mad.<p>

Every night, she rushes into his library, pulls out books on astronomy, physics, historical weather patterns. She takes over one of the larger tables, papers and tomes in messy stacks (how the devil does she get any actual research done being so disorganized?) as she flips through pages and scribbles illegible notes in a leather notebook.

And when she's finished, she leaves. Without putting a single book back. Not even to the return cart. As if he's got nothing better to do than clean up after her. (There's more to being a librarian than putting books on shelves, she might be shocked to learn.)

It's unconscionable, and Loki's had enough.

He waits, legs propped up on his desk, _War and Peace_ open in his lap, for her to make her nightly appearance. She bursts through the doors at 10:20 p.m. like clockwork, flying toward her favorite stacks like the mini-tornado she is. He ticks off the seconds until—ah, there it is. That lovely curse of frustration coming from the physics section. Oh, and another one two seconds later when she hits the astronomy shelves.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six—

"Hi," she says, patting a hand against his desk. "Excuse me."

He turns a page in his book before looking up at her with a polite smile. "Yes?"

Her eyes widen fractionally, and he wonders briefly if he's inadvertently inspired a sexy librarian fantasy. (He _is_ quite dashing.) She clears her throat. "There's a problem with some books."

He feigns concern. "Oh? What seems to be the trouble?"

"They're missing. All of them." She sounds just the littlest bit desperate, and he likes it.

"_All_ of them?" he asks, leaning back to glance past her at the well-stocked library (minus two sections).

She blushes. "No, I mean… The physics and astronomy books are gone."

"That _is_ odd," he agrees with a grave nod. "Perhaps they're all out at the moment. You can check back with us tomorrow."

"But I can't wait until…" She trails off as her gaze passes over him to the neatly stacked volumes behind his desk. "Wait," she says, pointing at them, "aren't those… They are!"

He keeps his expression neutral, though it is a challenge. "I beg your pardon?"

"The books! From the shelves!" she hisses. "They're right there!"

He makes a show of turning around. "Oh, yes. Those," he says, once again giving her his full attention. "I'm afraid those are reserved."

"They're _all_ reserved?" Her question drips with disbelief.

"Every one." He turns back to his novel, waiting for—

"By who?"

"Whom," he corrects, enjoying the pretty shade of red that colors her cheeks. She's rather attractive when she's angry, he decides. Perfect fodder for a racy student fantasy—if he went in for that sort of thing. (He didn't. Usually.)

She lets out a noise of exasperation. "By _whom_, then?"

"Me."

She gapes at him. "You?" And then: "You! Why would you take every physics and astronomy book?"

He shrugs. "Perhaps I've developed a passion for those particular subjects."

"Bullshit!"

He shushes her with a finger against his mouth. "Inside voice, please."

She looks as though she's on the verge of leaping over the desk and strangling him, and he has to grit his teeth to keep from laughing. This is far more entertaining than he anticipated. (Who knew the mousy researcher was such a firebrand? He idly wonders what other buttons she has that he can push.)

"I'm so going to file a complaint," she says. "Where's your superior?"

"In bed, I should think," he replies with a glance at his watch. "She'll be in at seven in the morning, if you would care to wait."

She glares at him. (Oh, yes. Quite beautiful when in a fit of temper.) "Fine. What's it going to take to get the books back?"

He rubs his thumb across his lips. "I'll give them to you on one condition."

She scowls, but nods for him to go on.

"You shelve them. Every single one—in proper order"

She gives him a flat look. "You're kidding."

"I'm quite serious," he says with a grin. "You do know how the Dewey Decimal System works, don't you? Or do you need a lesson?"

Her flat look becomes flatter as she folds her arms across her chest. "Do you randomly torture grad students when you're bored, or am I just that special?"

"Most definitely the latter." He extricates his legs from the desk and leans forward with a smirk. "You see, Miss…"

It's a beat before she fills in the blank for him. "Foster. Jane Foster."

"Miss Foster," he repeats, "I have my doubts as to whether you are, in fact, capable of re-shelving books. The evidence up until now has been less than favorable on your behalf."

Her mouth falls open in outrage. "_That's_ why you're doing this? Because I didn't put a few measly books away?"

He could argue that her "few measly books" (few? _hardly_) keep him well past his shift every night, but being reasonable is so dreadfully dull. Instead, he looks at his watch again. "You best get to it if you want to get any studying done before the library closes."

Her face turns a brilliant shade of crimson, and he gives her his winningest smile. "Go on, then."

With a huff, she steps around the desk and starts filling the empty cart he so generously left out for her. "This isn't over," she says as she takes the first batch of books back to where they belong.

He laughs. Oh, no. It most certainly isn't over, Jane Foster.

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><p><strong>AN:** Thanks for taking a gander at this silly little drabble!


	4. Sown in Tears, Reaped in Vindication

**Genres: **Drama/Angst (Dark and Twisty)

**A/N:** So, someone on Tumblr posted the quote: "How do you stop loving somebody when they've stopped loving you?" and begged writers not to use it in a story. And because I am secretly the devil, I made it a challenge. Of course, I had to answer the challenge, too! (If you want to see the other offerings, you can find them here: startraveller776 tumblr com / tagged/crush-the-feels-challenge)

This is a sequel, of sorts, to audreyii-fic's Lokane drabble (and I can't hope to equal its awesomeness), The Grand (which can be found in her Loki and Jane Drabbles), and is based on the 90's Russell T. Davis show of the same name. (If you haven't seen it, you oughtta. It's basically a Lokane AU.) This takes place roughly twenty years after the events of Audrey's drabble.

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><p><strong>Sown in Tears, Reaped in Vindication<strong>

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><p>Thor sits at the bar, broad shoulders hunched as he stares at his glass of <em>akevitt<em>. Loki watches from the shadows (as always—lurking, observing, _collecting_). He's mildly surprised to see his brother in this—what had he called it? oh, yes—den of iniquity. Surely the fair-haired paragon of virtue would seek solace in a venue more befitting of his light and goodness.

But then, something's happened, hasn't it? Something _important_.

After Thor knocks back his liquor, grimacing at the burn, and motions for another, Loki makes his approach. (There is only so much one can gain by watching, after all.) He slides through the crowd of hedonistic revelers, holding up a hand when one or two begin to entreat him. No distractions tonight, not when there is such fodder to be had from his vaulted brother.

He takes a seat next to Thor, orders the same drink. He waits a beat, waits until Thor acknowledges his presence with a sidelong glance before asking, "Hva uro deg, bror? Virksomheten går bra, er det ikke?"

Thor grunts a bitter laugh. "You know it is, thanks to your generous support," he answers in English. After nearly twenty years of marriage to a foreigner, he slips between his native tongue and hers as easily as Loki does—even if his pronunciation is still accented. (Never quite going the extra mile, Thor. Always doing just enough. Such a _useful_ little defect of character.)

"I'm glad to hear that my investment is flourishing." Loki brings his glass to his mouth, lets the spice and citrus of the _akevitt_ roll over his tongue. "And Jane? The children? They are well, too?"

Thor's jaw clenches, muscle cording over bone. "They are quite well, yes." A half-truth, most certainly, by the sarcasm discoloring his words.

Loki wants to pounce on that thread of intrigue, but he's long mastered the subtle art of encouraging his brother in increments to reveal his secrets (his weaknesses). "And yet you are troubled. Have you done something?" (Say yes.)

Thor looks at him, eyes full of glassy helplessness. "If I have, I wish to know it," he confesses with a desperation unbecoming of the strong, noble son of Odin. "She's moved out of our rooms, and I don't understand why."

"That is grave news, indeed." _Important_ news. Loki furrows his brow in sympathy. "But perhaps this is only temporary. She has always been rather impulsive." Not entirely true, but the best lies are a simple matter of misdirection, and setting husband and wife against one another has become more instinct than habit.

"No," Thor says, shaking his head as he downs his drink. "She no longer loves me. Tell me, brother, what am I to do with that?"

Oh, but what _Loki_ could do with this revelation. _Will_ do. Not yet, though. He keeps his expression neutral. "Did she say this to you?"

"Not in words," Thor admits with bowed shoulders, "but certainly in deed. It's never been the same—not since…"

"Ah." Loki nods in somber understanding. Not since loss of little Alf-Peter. That was a rather convenient thing—not that Loki wished for their youngest boy's death. (He's not a monster—not completely.) "There you have it. She is only grieving."

Thor frowns at him in obvious disbelief. "For seven years?"

"Who is to say how long it takes for a mother to mourn," Loki replies, but Thor is no longer listening.

His attention is back on his empty glass. "Hvordan stopper du kjærlig noen som har sluttet å elske deg?"

Pathetic. Thor playing the heartbroken, jilted husband—when he hadn't loved her on their wedding day and likely hadn't truly loved her until he found himself without her undying devotion. _This_ is the quixotic hero who always had everything and deserved none of it. How the mighty have fallen. (Loki regrets nothing.)

"Perhaps, if I speak with her," he says, "she can be made to see reason."

Thor looks up, face softening in wretched hope. "If you can accomplish such a feat, I will be eternally in your debt."

Tempting, but no. Thor's unending gratitude is not the prize Loki seeks. (It never was.) He waves the bartender over, instructs him to give his brother whatever he wants, and then leaves Thor to swim in his misery.

Jane isn't in their apartment, as Thor said, but has taken up residence in one of the hotel suites. Loki doesn't knock—he doesn't need to—as the door is open, servants bustling in with her things. He leans against the jamb, arms crossed, studying her as she directs the chaos. Age has done nothing to her beauty but sharpen the edges once blurred with youth. She is the specter which has haunted him these past twenty years, driven him to the brink of madness, inspired him to a level of cunning and machination which his paltry envy of Thor never could.

She wipes a bead of sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, says something to one of the maids, her gaze falling on him, and as ever, he feels truly _seen_. This, he thinks, is what draws him to her. Her eyes pierce his meticulously crafted façade, and he likes being known—even if she despises the crepuscule she finds there.

"What do you want, Loki?" she asks, lips thin with disapproval. (So lovely, her contempt. Why should Thor yearn for her affection when there is _this_ to be had?)

"Your husband working quite hard to get drunk in my establishment," Loki replies stepping into the room uninvited. "Care to enlighten me?"

She casts a surreptitious glance at the servants who make embarrassingly poor attempts at pretending _not_ to listen. "It's none of your concern."

Loki raises his brows. "On the contrary, he's sent me to be his emissary in this unfortunate business."

Her responding laugh is brittle. "You didn't come here for Thor."

"Ditt arbeid er ferdig her!" he snaps at the others, and they spare only a heartbeat before shuffling from the room. He closes the door behind them, the lock falling into place with a clank. The empty-headed imbeciles will talk; let them. Reputations have long since ceased to be of any worry to Loki—particularly _good_ ones.

Jane says nothing. Whether she recognizes the futility of protesting or she unconsciously desires the coming incendiary confrontation, she's a fool for allowing him entry in the first place.

"You're right." He turns to her, smile stretching wide across his mouth. "I didn't come here for him." He closes the distance between them with unhurried footfalls, glad that her defiance keeps her from retreating. "I came to _finally_ enjoy the fruits of my labors."

She scoffs, though the rise and fall of her chest has become quick, shallow. "You think because Thor and I are having troubles that I will fall into your arms?" Rancor bleeds into her voice, pinches her face. "As if I could ever love _you_."

His smile doesn't drop; he's impervious to this vitriol. She _sees_ but she doesn't _understand_. "Oh, Jane," he murmurs, cupping her cheek. When she doesn't jerk away from his touch (telling, that), he caresses a line up her jaw with his other hand. "I don't need your love. I only need you."

He's so close, _so close_ to sating this gnawing decades-old hunger. His bones vibrate with anticipation.

She slaps him hard across the face. "Dra til helvete!"

He laughs, dry, clipped. "Jeg er allerede der."

He captures her wrist when her hand flies again, grips her waist and yanks her into him. He smothers her objection with a brutal kiss, crushing, deep, wet. Teeth clashing against teeth. Because he wants—_needs_—to devour her. The resistance she puts up is tissue thin, perfunctory at best, and soon she is meeting him, lust for lust. And as much as he's savored her intransigence, how unexpectedly _honeyed_ her capitulation is.

She is his—despising him, even as he divests her of gown and shift, but _his_.

When he was a boy, in a futile attempt to quell his consuming jealousy, Frigga once told him that _having_ is often not quite so pleasing as _wanting_.

But as Jane lies beneath him, slick with sweat and back arching as she cries out, Loki knows his mother was wrong.

Having is _everything_.

(Thor's devastation most of all.)

**~FIN~**

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><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

Hva uro deg, bror? Virksomheten går bra, er det ikke? = What upsets you, brother? Business is going well, is it not?

Hvordan stopper du kjærlig noen som har sluttet å elske deg? = How do you stop loving someone who has stopped loving you?

Ditt arbeid er ferdig her! = Your work is done here!

Dra til helvete! = Go to hell!

Jeg er allerede der. = I'm already there.

**A/N:** Thank you for reading!


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